


An American Soldier In London

by uglywombat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Brief descriptions of war related PTSD, F/M, Fluff, Post-Endgame, Smut, Soft Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24465280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglywombat/pseuds/uglywombat
Summary: Life after Steve Rogers, HYDRA, Thanos and without a home is not what Bucky Barnes expected. He did not envision spending a summer babysitting an ancient socialite in London with a devil dog called Walter Terence III. Nor did he predict the broken chair leg, cracked window and the buttercup smile that takes him on a whirlwind tour of London.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	An American Soldier In London

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Estelle and Kanye West's "American Boy" and my absolute love on London for a tumblr challenge by @jbbuckybarnes

A fine mist of rose, lavender, and musty aroma soaks the air. Polite, hushed conversations and china tinkling fill the small room.

The fine bone china taunts the burly soldier, provoking him to pick up the dainty teacup, filled to the brim with boiling hot tea and break the fine handle. The antique mothball-scented lace, the fumes of rose perfume, and the perfectly made sandwiches and cakes intricately placed on the stand between him and Sam - it’s a lot for the embattled soldier.

James Buchanan Barnes is a man of simple tastes. Born in a generation when his family had to scrimp and save just to put food on the table during the Depression, just as millions of other families had. This room, with its heavy aroma of sugar and rose, the soft tinkling of fragile, expensive china and polite whisperings, is smothering. 

The chair he sits in is restricting and hard, like the chair his ma used to make him sit on to cut his hair or punish him when he’d been sassy. The fabric looks like it was stolen from the reject pile from Downton Abbey and smells like it had been sitting in the back of Steve’s closet.

The atmosphere is not helped by the constricting and suffocating hold his jacket has on his upper body. Outside, London is steaming through a blistering hot day, the sun unforgiving and the breeze non-existent. The small tea house isn’t equipped for hot summers, it was built to withstand the brunt of winter. But, he dare not take off the protective layer because he knows the pressure of the stares. The weight of the past and what he has done… 

His arm, made of brilliant and lightweight vibrarium, is the regalia of the past. A painful reminder of what was taken from him and the torment and destruction he had afflicted. 

A stiff look from Sam and Bucky reluctantly picks up the delicate teacup, cringing as liquid dances precariously towards the rim of the cup and takes a timid sip. He scrunches his nose, the hot liquid bitter on his tongue as he forces it down. God, he’d murder someone for a cup of coffee right about now. 

Outside, the sun is shining bright, the sky a perfect shade of cornflower that reminds him of Steve’s eyes; bright and full of promise. He should be outside, exploring the streets of London, taking in some Vitamin D and getting a tan - instead, he’s stuck in this pretentious old tea house with the twenty-thousand-year-old socialite they’ve been protecting for the past month. 

This is not what Bucky had imagined his life would be like after HYDRA, Wakanda, watching Steve disappear a young man and return aged and content. Since the Avengers have moved on to mourn and pick up the pieces from the utter chaos and despair left from Thanos’ destruction, Bucky has followed in the new Captain America’s steps. 

Sam is a fine leader; stoic, fair, and kind. Unlike Steve, he is not so quick to jump into action without careful thought and Bucky hates to admit it, delivers better one-liners. He’s growing to like the birdman except for this moment right now. 

Yes, Bucky had thought that his life after Steve and the Avengers would be dedicated to eradicating the evils threatening the hard-fought peace on earth, not babysitting a dour old socialite in London. The crusty old lady had received some colourful threats from a well-known terrorist and Sam had been charged with her safety. How Bucky has been dragged along is a memory best left reserved for when his discontent is not bubbling at the surface.

The mini-asshole, a purebred Scottish Terrier glares at the soldier over the pristine table, goading him to put a toe out of line. Walter Terrence III has had it out for Bucky ever since he had stepped foot in the mothball-scented terrace house. He has awoken to the dog sitting on the end of his bed watching him sleep. Stepped out of the shower to find the mutt blocking the door. He is always watching, glaring, and growling.

If Walter Terrence III doesn’t die by the end of this mission it will be a miracle and Bucky might reconsider his relationship with God.

He picks up a dainty triangle sandwich and scrunches his nose at the distinct odour of tuna before slapping the offensive morsel back onto the fragile tower of tiny, pretentious food. 

Sam, on the other hand, is smacking his lips and licking every tiny crumb of pink macaron that he can find. Now, the newly appointed Captain America would no rather be in this tiny posh tea house than Bucky, but Sam understands his role in this mission. He has a persona that is expected of him and if that means allowing an eighty-year-old woman to drag them to high tea in the middle of Notting Hill then so be it.

“Cheer up, old chum,” Sam says with a cheery faux English accent, holding up his teacup, “we could be dust.”

Bucky snorts, knowing the old lady can’t hear them, too stingy with her millions to get her hearing aids fixed. “You and I both know this is a waste of time and we could be spending it doing something meaningful and actually helpful. Instead, we are here playing Sylvanians.”

Sam’s laugh sounds like a steam engine crawling up a mountain, drawing attention from a crowd of Midsummer Murders fans. “You’ve been studying.”

Bucky sighs and drops another sugar cube into his bitter tea. “There was a little girl who lived in the apartment across from me in Bucharest who loved to play with them in the hall…”

His voice strains and he’s sure he’s gone pale at the memory planted at the crest of a steep cliff he dare not peer down. 

Sam grasps his shoulder and squeezes in a reassuring yet respectful manner, the old woman oblivious as she suckles on a cucumber sandwich. Bucky finds the gesture comforting but he can’t deny there’s a boiling pot of anxiety and energy that is bubbling to the surface. 

Picking up his tea, the dog scowls at Bucky and Bucky glares at the dog. The silent battle wages on and Bucky can hear a faint, wispy giggle to his right. The delicate cup clatters on the saucer in his embarrassment as he peers over to see the cheeky glint in your eyes as you watch him intently.

The breath in Bucky’s chest catches and the world around him stops. The hum in his ears, constant and disorientating, is silenced as his steely eyes lock with yours. His brow furrows at the flip-flopping of his stomach as your grin, all rosy and warm, grows. 

You don’t belong in this stuffy, fossil of a tea house, your jeans tattered and torn, your bra just visible under your shirt and Doc Martens well-loved. 

“Well, well, well.” Bucky groans and sinks into the uncomfortable chair as Sam gleefully watches on. “What are you doing man? Go talk to her.”

Bucky scoffs, picking up the dainty cup and drains the tepid, still bitter tea before slamming the fine china down, cringing at the unsubtle sound of cracking. The old woman tuts and the dog snarls at the tired soldier.

“Bucky, she might be the only person on this planet who thinks you’re funny. Go talk to the lady or I will go do it for you.”

The brunette soldier, sullen and frigid in disposition, huffs and sulkily grabs a lemon and earl grey petit four that he promptly shoves in his mouth and all but swallows whole. It’s sweet and he hates to admit it, it’s kind of tasty. He grabs another two and stuffs them into his mouth, Walter growling lowly at him. 

Sam raises an eyebrow before he swiftly pushes back his chair, gracefully making his way to your table. Bucky panics, his cheeks stuffed to the brim with sweet cake, choking on stray crumbs as he makes a desperate attempt to stop the impending doom. His chair slams into the window behind him, the crack deafening as it echoes through the small room, followed by an outburst of barking. 

It’s too late. The broken chair leg, the cracked window, a pot of tea on the floor is all in vain as he watches you giggle at Sam and nod. Your eyes, warm like a summer afternoon and safe like his mother’s arms lock on his as you stand up from your chair and collect your belongings. 

Bucky swallows hard as you collect your small handbag and sharing that sunny smile you nod your head towards the door. 

He shouldn’t follow you, a beautiful stranger, especially as it was Sam’s idea, and then there’s Walter… but Sam is literally pushing him towards the door after you. The delicate scent of your perfume, soft like fresh linen and sweet with pepper, catches his senses as he follows you outside, just hearing Sam apologising to the manager about the window before the door slams shut. 

The sun shines around you, your cherry red bottom lip caught between your teeth as you lock eyes, so caught up in each other’s gaze that you barely notice the heavy crowds moving around you. 

“Look, Sam he…”

You chuckle and Bucky is lost for words. “It’s fine. I’m not going to hold you hostage with my company if you don’t want to. You could go back to Lady Stick-Up-Her-Arse,” a chuckle breaks from his lips at your over the top ersatz impression of the old bitty, “or you could allow me to show you the real London.”

The upturn of your cherry lips is dangerous; cheeky, charming, and endearing. The thud of Bucky’s heart skips and for a moment, he wonders if he has indigestion. But then your smile splits and he’s lost. 

“I guess I have nothing better to do.”

He expects you to slap him across the face so he’s surprised when you laugh. “I guess so.”

“I’m Bucky.”

That smile and Bucky furrows his brows as he feels a crack in the barrier around his heart. Your name is like fresh sunshine and a meadow of buttercups and Bucky knows he is in trouble. 

“Come on, your mate gave me something called a Stark card and said to paint the town red.”

**Camden Markets**

The market is an assault of the senses and Bucky is instantly on alert, acutely aware of his surroundings. The colours from the small, quirky shops and stalls are bright and curious. Spices and sugar permeate the air and his stomach grumbles in protest. Pathetically tiny and insignificant cakes and sandwiches are no match for the spurious super-soldier serum that flows through his veins. 

“You hungry Bucky?” Your voice, soft and lyrical like a song his mother would hum as she bathed him as a young child, lilts over the noisy hustle and bustle surrounding you both. “I’m starving, I could eat a horse.” 

Up until now, you have both travelled on the tube and walked in comfortable silence, the quiet soldier taking time to analyse your every move. 

Bucky’s stomach grumbles in response and your smile reaches your eyes, sending his stomach flopping to the ground. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He flinches as you take his gloved hand gently and pull him through the crowd, ignoring the stares of stall owners and tourists. The advanced technology of the vibranium, courtesy of Shuri, allows him to feel the warmth of your hand, the softness of your skin, despite the thin glove covering his hand. 

You’re comfortable, at home in the busy market, side-stepping around overwhelmed and lost tourists, pulling the brunette soldier towards the canals. He shouldn’t trust you, a complete stranger Sam has paid to take him on a tour of London, but he can’t ignore the soft vibrations of warmth that seeps through his thick walls as he takes in your warm aura. 

You give him an encouraging smile before pulling him into  **Dingwalls** , a pub situated along the Thames in an old brick building. Bucky is shocked at the modern, clean interior, the scent of warm wood and ale lingering in the air. 

You abruptly turn to the tall man, taking him by surprise with your hand still locked on his, a sparkle in your eyes… playful and daring. Bucky can’t breathe. 

“Do you trust me, Bucky Barnes?” He’s taken aback by your question and it must be painfully obvious on his perplexed features because your hand gently squeezes and he’s instantly reassured. “Is there anything you can’t eat?”

Bucky shakes his head, dumbfounded, and can only watch on as you calmly make your way over to the bar, his eyes lingering on your hips as they sway. No. Bucky is a gentleman, he’s a soldier, do not engage. So, he sulkily drags himself over to a table in the corner, where he can monitor the room, carefully watch the staff and customers. 

You return with two large dark pints in your hands and a broad smile on your face. 

You sit in silence, Bucky dubious of you and your intentions for this ‘date’ or whatever this was. You playfully make eye contact, clearly unperturbed by the strange situation. The reticence is peculiarly comfortable and allows the soldier a moment to really study you. 

He can’t help the small smirk that wobbles as you take a greedy drink of the bitter ale, your nose scrunching briefly before you take yet another greedy drink. He’s perplexed by the rhythmic tapping your fingers performing on the wooden table, your nails painted a deep red. It reminds him of the lipstick Peggy Carter used to wear; Steve used to waffle on about the complexity of the shade in the dark of their tent late at night. He wonders if given the chance, would Peggy have brought Steve here after the war? Would they have sat along the rivers, along the canals, drinking beer and eating English pub grub?

He shakes his head, desperately trying not to fall deep into the channel of old memories and what-ifs. There’s little point. This is his new reality… A pawn, much like Steve, at the bidding of his government, looking after a witchy old woman and her psychotic dog... 

He jumps as he feels himself drawn back into the room, your hand resting on the cool vibranium of his hand. It’s so warm and comforting, god it reminds him of his mother…

“If you want, I can take you somewhere else. I could leave you alone…”

“No,” he stutters, “I’m sorry. This is all just so…” He stops as your thumb lightly caresses the metal - the vibranium, not his skin. The daunting hunk of metal that frightens people.

“Do you know why I offered to help?” You smile as Bucky scowls. “My brother was in the army for ten years. He’s a lot older than me, I was a bit of an accident.” Your chuckle simultaneously tugs and caresses Bucky’s heart. “He joined the army hoping it would bring him and my father closer and perhaps help create some sort of respect…” Your fingers numbly play with the paper napkin. “He wasn’t the same when he returned from Iraq, so quiet and in his head all the time…” You clear your throat. “When I saw you in the tea house I saw a lot of my brother in you and I… you deserve more respect than the glares you were getting.”

Any anxiety that resides in his stomach starts to dissipate with your words and for the first time in a long time, Bucky feels seen.

“Besides,” you chuckle, “the look that dog was giving you over the scones, he was going for your jugular tonight.”

Bucky laughs, genuinely laughs from his core for the first time in what seems like a lifetime. Since before the snap, before his battle with Tony, god, before the war. 

He doesn’t flinch as the waitress places the plate before him, covered in chips, baked beans and a strange pink looking steak. 

“Gammon and chips. Food for the soul and a long afternoon. I hope you’re ready, Bucky Barnes, I’m going to show you the real London.”

Content with your intentions, Bucky really digs into food, satiated for the first time in a long time. The layered flavours of salty and starch come alive on his tongue, he eats like a man starved.

**Aldwych Station**

Night has fallen by the time you make your way down into the underground, side by side. Your feet ache from the miles you have walked, exploring hidden laneways and parks scattered around inner London. 

Bucky’s face aches from the hours spent talking, spilling his guts, smiling and laughing. He hasn’t felt this free or safe since he was a child. It’s so easy to forget the dark and oppressive memories from the past when he’s in your presence. 

The abandoned tube station is bitterly cold as you lead him down under the streets of London. Your thankful your friend Toby has been able to leave the lights on for you after his last ghost tour of the evening. The abandoned tunnels are one of your favourite places to explore. 

You stand close to each other on the platform, your skin rising in goosebumps in the icy atmosphere. You smile as Bucky removes his jacket and hangs it over your shoulders to keep you warm. 

“Aldwych closed in ‘94,” your soft voice echoing off of the old tiles lining the cracked walls. “They hid the Elgin Marbles down here during the Blitz to protect them and they used it as a bomb shelter, but it was never a busy station. It was originally called Strand Station, because of where it is, but they changed the name in 1915. They’ve filmed a couple of movies and TV shows down here.”

Bucky knows he should be taking in the haunted space, but he can’t tear his eyes from the passion that resonates in your voice and the sparkle in your eyes. 

“Above us used to be the Royal Strand Theatre until the 1830s. When the trains first started to run, to assist illiterate or foreign travellers recognise which station they had pulled into, they decided to dedicate a certain tile colour to each station.”

“This is beautiful,” Bucky muses and your eyes lock momentarily before he clears his throat in embarrassment and focuses on the peeling posters. “And the supposed ghosts?”

You giggle and lean against the wall behind you. “Well, there are reports of an actress, who used to perform in the theatre, walking along the tracks in the dark of night.” Bucky chuckles as he leans beside you. “They say she is unsatisfied with her final curtain call and is searching for another moment in the spotlight.”

You stand in comfortable silence, taking in your surrounds and trying to tip-toe around the obvious chemistry. Until your eyes lock on each other again, the pull of energy so overwhelming.

Your eyes widen as Bucky moves to stand before you. He flinches and second-guesses himself as your eyes widen, your back pressed firmly to the cool brick wall of the tunnel. And then he sees it in your eyes. 

Wonder. Excitement. Hunger.

Cupping a hand to your cheek, he tentatively inches closer and is comforted as your hands firmly grip his t-shirt. You want him, the man beat down and played like a deadly marionette for decades. A killer. Bucky Barnes is a killer and you, soft and sweet like a summery buttercup are drawing your lips but a breath away from his. 

“May I kiss you, Bucky Barnes?”

The breath he exhales caresses your lips and his heart surges and skips a beat as your smile brightens in the dimly-lit tunnel. 

“Aren’t you afraid of the ghosts being offended with their sensitive sensibilities?” His voice is low and there’s a slight purr in the molten timbre. 

“Personally I think the ghosts could do with a little excitement.”

  
  


**Notting Hill**

You both lose any notion of time and sense of urgency, the world outside long forgotten. You take your time memorising and learning each others’ bodies. Bucky falls hard for the breathy giggle that falls from your lips as his fingers barely touch the soft skin of your waist. 

You perfect the pressure of your lips against the ragged scarring on his shoulder, careful not to touch it with your fingers. Bucky forgets how hideous the angry, raised skin is under the healing caress of your lips. 

His touch is hesitant and careful as you kneel opposite each other on the soft, warm queen bed. Bucky feels an overwhelming sense of home and belonging in the cute apartment you call home. He can’t imagine leaving this place.

You make love that night, your hands intertwined and sharing soul-sucking kisses. Bucky loves the petite whimpers as you climb towards your peak, the flutter of your walls around his cock as you come. He could hear that symphony night after night and never tire of it. 

The hard planes of his muscles under your fingers as he cages you into the bed are a prize. He is so strong and lithe, graceful like a panther, and yet he is as tender as a lamb. 

The moonlight dances on the bedsheets as you move in tandem, legs drawn haphazardly over his hips as he takes his time. He savours the ebb and flow of your orgasms, determined to make the most of this one night together. 

And yet he can’t imagine a life away from this place, away from you. The only person on this planet who sees his worth, who sees beyond the vibranium heavy on his arm.

You dare not fall asleep, content to lay in his arms and listen to him spill his guts further, opening himself to you. He speaks of his fears and trepidation about trying to rebuild a life honouring Steve and moving on from his past. 

Eventually, the sun rises, a dagger in your sides. You take your time making breakfast, Bucky plastered to your side. You languidly shower together, wasting a week's worth of water as you make the most of what little time you have together. 

It shouldn’t be like this. It’s not fair.

You bravely force back the tears when he receives a call from Sam telling him to return to his post. Bucky’s thumbs the evading tears falling down your cheeks as you say goodbye on the small cobblestone street.

Bucky remains stoic for the remainder of their mission, but can not deny the gaping hole in his soul. Sam is acutely aware of the change in his companion but doesn’t breach the subject until their last night together. 

The newly-appointed captain finds Bucky packing his bag, Walter Terrence III eyeing him off from the doorway. 

“Alright buddy, I’m putting my foot down. What’s going on? You’re more surly than usual.”

Bucky sighs and clings to the shirt in his hand, the scent of your perfume still evident in the cotton. “Do you believe in love at first sight, Sam?” 

“You’re telling me you fell in love with the girl from the tea house?”

Bucky smiles weakly. “I didn’t, you know, believe in all that. Told Steve he’d lost his goddamn mind when he was hollering about Peggy Carter night after night during the war. I was so wrong Sam.” He exhales sadly, the feeling of your hands on him still shaking him to the core. “She makes me feel worthy and… normal. When I was with her I felt like I deserved a home, some peace.”

Sam claps a hand on his shoulder. “You deserve that Buck, Steve would want that for you. Go find some happiness.”

Bucky doesn’t need telling twice. He is picking up his bag, flipping off the murderous mutt and hailing a cab before you can say “what would Steve Rogers do?”

The lights are low when the cab pulls up outside your apartment, the streets quiet in the late night. Bucky’s knocks are frantic but he doesn’t care if he wakes up the whole damn neighbourhood. 

His heart sings as you open the door, dressed in little but a singlet and short-shorts. “Bucky? Is everything alright?” 

The brunette takes your hand and pulls you into a tight hug. “I wanted to thank you. Not just for showing me your home but making me see that I am worth so much more than being a soldier.” He cups your face and looks you in the eye. “This is crazy and I really don’t have a clue what I’m doing but I can’t imagine a world without you in it.” 

You step on your toes and tenderly kiss him, weaving your fingers through his locks.

“Do you need a place to stay while you find your feet?” He nods, his thumbs caressing your cheekbone and his heart fills with joy as you smile brightly. “Welcome home Bucky Barnes. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea and a shag?”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback always welcome x


End file.
